14 January 2009

W to O

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re the smartest guy in any room you walk into, Barry, but this ain’t the U.S. Senate, where guys who didn’t even pass the bar their first time out get to decide who’s on the Supreme Court,” snapped W. “Maybe, just maybe, you could learn something from the men who’ve come here before you.

Lesson No. 1: The media aren’t your friends, they just liked you better than the other guy. Now you are the other guy.

Lesson two: First week in office, best thing you can do is infuriate your base. A real knee to the groin. Make them question why they ever donated a nickel or licked a stamp for you. [...]You have to make people understand that nobody owns the president of the U.S. of A.

Next week call up the CEO of Exxon-Mobil and invite him over to watch a movie [over] a big bowl of buttered popcorn. Better yet, have one of your flunkies from Greenpeace or the trial-lawyers association there, too, and have them serve the popcorn. Teach that puppy to heel.

You want to be your own man, the trick is to pick one thing and stick with it no matter what anybody says. With me, after 9/11, it was all about the war against the jihadis. You pick one thing and hold fast to it, you’re going to be hated worse than you can imagine.”

“What if you’re wrong about that one thing?” persisted Obama.

“The big things, the important decisions, you may not ever know if you were right,” said W., “but you have to do what you think best, anyway.”

“You’ll do fine,” said W. “Another thing, don’t be tempted to start throwing out pardons like necklaces at Mardi Gras,” warned W., wagging a finger. “I guarantee, right off the bat you’re going to be hit up to release that cop-killer. What’s his name? Abu Ben-Adam?”

“Mumia Abu-Jamal.”

“Whatever. Don’t do it. At least not until the last day of your last term in office. Then all bets are off. You can pardon Manson if you want to then. Billy Clinton got that right at least.”

Obama settled deeper into the La-Z-Boy. “Does this thing have a massage unit?”

“There’s a switch under your right arm. That’s it.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“Another thing,” said W., squinting over at him. “Give people nicknames. Stretch. Turd-Blossom. Hezbollah Helen. Mr. Stupid. Giving out nicknames makes it seem like you’re one of the gang, humanizes you while, at the same time, asserting control. Remember, you’re the one passing out names. Nobody gives you a nickname.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

“Remember, don’t tell anybody else about this room, not even Michelle.”

Orgogliosamente

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